


Lux Facta Est

by mademoiselle_poupee



Series: Lux Facta Est [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Drama, F/M, Family, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Lady Sybil Lives, Romance, Sybil Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-02 15:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mademoiselle_poupee/pseuds/mademoiselle_poupee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“God, please don’t take away my Mamma, please! Don’t let her die. I know I almost killed her, I know I did but that‘s my fault, not Mamma’s! Don’t let the baby kill her, please! Please, God, please. Da won’t manage it. I won’t manage it. We can’t –. I’ll do anything just don’t take Mamma away from me and Da. Please.”</p><p>Upon the birth of Tom and Sybil's second child, the family is forced to relive the dark events surrounding Sybbie's coming. [Sybil Lives AU]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Voilà le soir qui tombe

**A/N:** In my perfect world, 3x05 would have a very, very different ending and so would the CS, so here we are. I've tried to stick to canon as much as possible but for the reason above, Sybil and Matthew are still alive here. Pretty please review!

**Disclaimer:** If Downton Abbey was mine, Sybil and Matthew would obviously still be walking the Yorkshire earth.

* * *

****

  
**_I._ _Voilà le soir qui tombe_ **

There were two places in the vast estate that from her earliest recollections, Sybbie Branson had claimed as her own. One was the great library at Downton which had always felt expressly made, conjured and stocked for the pleasure of the avid reader that was the Earl of Grantham’s eldest grandchild. The other was unsurprisingly the garage that had witnessed the unfolding of her parents’ love story, a story that had remained closest to the child’s heart, so much more than all the leather-covered tomes the entire library contained. Given, she shared both sanctuaries with her cousin George, who advanced honorary ownership at the least. It was in either of the two that she ran to in games of hide-and-seek, where she and George would scream about whatever they wanted at the top of their lungs after being scolded by Gran Violet that children should be seen and not heard, where she (and George) would devour Mrs. Patmore’s cookies right before dinner, where she chose to cry in solitude when dear Isis had left Downton forever.

The sight of grey clouds gathering overhead was what prompted Sybbie to seek sanctuary and solitude in the former that particular day; that, and the fact that the garage seemed much too close for comfort to the source of her present affliction. Sprawled out on the couch, shoes and all, blue ribbon discarded on the floor, frock creased beyond belief, curls a mess, eyes red and swollen, cheeks wet, Sybbie wasn’t in solitude, not really. True to his claim of honorary membership, George, her partner-in-crime, her best friend, really more a brother than a cousin, was sprawled out on the couch opposite her, shoes and all, clothes in the same creased state as her own. He watched her intently with worried Crawley blue eyes.

He was silent, she was silent, the room was silent.

It was not so long ago that Carson had entered to announce that luncheon had been served. What a sight they must have been – the future Earl of Grantham and the first granddaughter of the house lounging about in a manner most inappropriate for children of their station with no care for the growing number of creases in their clothes or in Miss Sybbie’s case, the sorry state of her coiffeur! The good, old butler said nothing on the matter, however, and simply nodded his assent when George asked him to please make their excuses to his lordship – neither of them was in a state for luncheon at the moment. Carson gave Sybbie a sad smile and remarked to himself how incredibly like Lady Sybil she looked at the moment, before shutting the door behind him.

“Sybbie –,” George started after another hour of silence filled the air between them.

He was answered with only more silence.

“Syb.”

Silence.

“Sybil.”

That went straight to the heart.

“George, please,” she pleaded.

He knew where this would go and for a second he regretted his choice of name.

Catatonic. That was the state she was in before he had spoken that name – _Sybil_. At the age of ten, George did not know what the word catatonic meant any more than the eleven-year old Sybbie did but it was a word he heard his Grandmamma use when she visited the cottage hospital. Catatonic was the word she used for the patient that was just _there_. Catatonic was the word to describe Sybbie’s state even as silent tears flowed down her cheeks. He pushed aside that brief regret for the moment and told himself that getting her out of that state would more than pay for the guilt he felt.

“I’m Sybbie, whatever name they christened me with. I’m Sybbie. Mamma is Sybil. She will always be Sybil and I will always be Sybbie.”

The silent tears that fell down her alabaster cheeks now turned into heaving sobs. At this, George stood and put his arms around his cousin who then buried her face in his shoulder as sobs continued to rack her body. “No one else is allowed to be Sybil. Only Mamma can be Sybil.”

It was a line that had charmed endless numbers of family friends and acquaintances, frequently repeated since their early childhood, “But Gran, Granny, Auntie Rosamund, I’m not Sybil Branson. Mamma is Sybil Branson, I’m _Sybbie_ Branson.”

This time, however, the use of the name was not a line that had elicited fond laughter from the acquaintances entranced by the precocious child. Today, the assertion that she is _Sybbie_ and not _Sybil_ unmasked the fear the family had held for months but did not dare speak, a fear that until later that day, George was not privy to – the fear that at this time tomorrow, _Miss_ Sybil Branson will be the _only_ Sybil Branson in the family and no longer will the names of Miss Sybil Branson and Mrs. Sybil Branson be a cause of confusion among the Crawley, Levinson and Branson acquaintances. The mere thought imported the grey gloom of outside into the room.

“Sybbie,” George began again. “She’s going to be alright, I know it.”

“You don’t know that,” she lets out a shrill cry, “None of us do – not Da, not Aunt Mary, not Uncle Matthew, not Granny, not even Doctor Clarkson!”

“Syb, I _do_ know,” and he does.

He doesn’t know why but he knows that this is something from which his aunt will pull through.

“Sybbie, Aunt Sybil is one of the most determined people I know. She has you, she has Uncle Tom and now the new baby. You can’t honestly believe she would be willing to leave you, do you? The three of you are Aunt Sybil’s whole world!”

“I know we are,” she replies in a broken voice. More than that she sees and feels it with every fiber of her being. It was peculiar, perhaps, for a child to feel this, or maybe there is nothing more natural than this, but for Sybbie, her parents being each other’s entire world and she being theirs is a simple fact, as simple as the fact that her hair is curly like Mamma’s, as simple as the fact that Catherine is a doll, as simple as the fact that George is her best friend.

“But Mamma is only human, George. There are things that even her determination cannot control.”

George doesn’t know everything. He doesn’t know the truth she now knows. She envied his ignorance.

She turned her gaze to the rain that had now noisily begun to fall in torrents outside the window. The Yorkshire air was grey inside and out. Unexpectedly, she thinks of the rainbows and the pots of gold that were the stuff of the Gaelic fairy stories her Nanna would tell her during those summer visits to Dublin. Would there be a rainbow with a pot of gold at the end of this rain storm, she wondered, or was this prelude to the unbearable storms that she could not weather?

 

_To be continued..._

 


	2. La poupée dans la vitrine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years passed and no baby came. Not a sister, nor a brother. Only leather-bound books of fairytales, large houses of dolls and dolls of porcelain whose frocks Granny confided were made with dentelle de Bruxelles, ordered himself by Father Christmas from the Belgian capital. But not even the beautiful doll who she named Catherine with her black curls, striking blue eyes and beautiful blue-green jupe-cullotes could take the sting off. Only, every Christmas she would see Mamma and Da exchange a brief sad look twice during the season – once when she would hand them her letter to be posted to Father Christmas in the North Pole and again after she opened her gifts and realized that there was no baby sister once more. The look was so brief that the idea that Sybbie had caught the exchange never entered their minds.
> 
> Sybbie, on her part, much more than she wanted a baby sister, wanted much more to remove that sadness from her parents' eyes.

**A/N:** THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU TO ALL THOSE WHO HAVE READ! This is my first baby so I'm still quite nervous and the reception I've received has made me feel warm and fuzzy <3.

The next two chapters will be flashbacks from the events of the first one and will hopefully give you a better background of the events. This one will be (a little) less dramatic than the first although a tad bit shorter. I hope you enjoy it and don't forget to review! ;D

**Disclaimer:** If Downton Abbey was mine, Sybil and Matthew will still walk the Yorkshire earth - Meg and Poppy are mine tho.

* * *

_La poupée dans la vitrine_

A baby sister.

A baby sister with hair as dark as Mamma's as her own was as light as Da's, straight as Da's as her own was as curly as Mamma's, alabaster skin and blue eyes like her own, chubby hands and fingers and legs.

For many years, a baby sister had been Sybbie's greatest wish. Prone to mischief as she and George were, she tried her best to be a perfect angel, especially at Downton where Gran could serve as a barometer ("How well behaved Sybbie is today!" "Sybbie is quite the little lady, is she not?"). She had tried hard to be one of those children that were seen but not heard even as Mamma and Da have repeatedly told her that they don't want her to be anyone else but her sweet, charming, if sometimes mischievous self. All this so that come Christmas time, she could proudly write to Father Christmas that she had been a good girl ("Gran Violet said so herself, Father Christmas!") so would he please give her a sweet baby sister that she can help dress and play with and cuddle and love.

Years passed and no baby came. Not a sister, nor a brother. Only leather-bound books of fairytales, large houses of dolls and dolls of porcelain whose frocks Granny confided were made with  _dentelle de Bruxelles_ , ordered himself by Father Christmas from the Belgian capital. But not even the beautiful doll who she named Catherine with her black curls, striking blue eyes and beautiful blue-green  _jupe-cullotes_  could take the sting off. Only, every Christmas she would see Mamma and Da exchange a brief sad look twice during the season – once when she would hand them her letter to be posted to Father Christmas in the North Pole and again after she opened her gifts and realized that there was no baby sister once more. The look was so brief that the idea that Sybbie had caught the exchange never entered their minds.

Sybbie, on her part, much more than she wanted a baby sister, wanted much more to remove that sadness from her parents' eyes.

The family moved to London after the Christmas she turned five. Da got a job once more as a journalist with a liberal paper and Mamma resumed the nursing she had undertaken again during the Downton years, this time in a big city hospital.

Tears were exchanged the day they left Yorkshire, especially between Sybbie and George who have always shared the Downton nursery and who have never lived apart. Visits with cookies in the library and hides-and-seeks in the garage were promised and it was off to London for the Bransons.

The town house was by no means Downton Abbey or even Auntie Rosamund's house in Eaton Square, neither was it in an address of great prestige but it was substantially larger than the flat in Ireland, Mamma and Da told her. Instead of a nursery, she was given her own room. In the sitting room, she was pleasantly surprised to find a telephone installed. "So that you can call George and George can call you. What about it, darling?," Da explained.

Mamma and Da settled into their careers and are happier than ever. An elderly woman named Poppy who Da described as "strong as an ox" is employed as their maid-of-all-work and the old woman instantly takes a shine to the little Miss Branson. Between frequent calls with George, Mamma's, Da's and Poppy's doting, and all the amenities that city life brings, Sybbie has come to miss Yorkshire less and less and had come to love the hustle and bustle of London.

Christmas brings the family back to Downton for a visit of mischief, cookies and George. Instead of a baby sister, Sybbie names a new doll Niamh.

The next Christmas is the opposite of the uneventful Noël of the Niamh doll. It appears that Father Christmas may have finally responded to her wish, only the baby sister is delivered to the wrong address. George complains that what he wanted was a new train set, Gran Martha from America would tell Father Christmas which one it is, only he receives instead a squalling baby sister – Margaret Crawley.

Indignant and very much jealous, Sybbie spends the night tending to a new doll, Sophia, ignoring baby-hating George and wishing once more that she could remove the sad look exchanged between her parents.

Little Meg Crawley grows and George warms to the idea of being an older brother. Rather than be weakened by the birth of a real sister, George and Sybbie's bond strengthens. "We've both been only children for so long, you're more a sister to me than a cousin, Syb," George proudly tells her. Meg grows to adore Sybbie, the only person who would willingly sit through her lengthy tea parties and the toddler is soon inducted into the rituals of cookies and hide-and-seek in the library and the garage. Mamma and Da continue to exchange that horrid, sad look during the Christmas season. Sybbie soon stops wishing for a baby sister and it is not long after that she stops believing in Father Christmas.

Sybbie is eleven-years old when her wish finally comes true much belatedly.

_To be continued..._

 

* * *

_Dentelle de Bruxelles_  - Brussels Lace. There are regions in France and Flanders that are celebrated for their unique weaving of lace of which Brussels is one. Apart from being made into handkerchiefs, table cloths and the like,  _Dentelle de Bruxelles_  is also commonly used for the clothes of porcelain dolls that are widely sold in the Belgian capital.


	3. Seul devant ces tables vides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I still dream about that day, you know…I see everything as clearly as I had that day and I feel everything again. I can see you in pain, so much pain, in your old bedroom at Downton. I see myself standing, feeling helpless, as your parents and the doctors argue over whether or not you should be brought to the hospital. I remember that one scream – that cry that decided the matter for us. Even in my dreams it chills me to the bone. I see it all again. I see Sybbie in your arms but I can’t bring myself to be as happy as I was then because I’m afraid of what follows. I see you thrashing in bed, delirious. I am calling to you, begging you, but you don’t hear me. To you I’m not there. I hear Sybbie crying in the distance and I see you in agony before me and I’m just so helpless and scared."

**A/N:** THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU AGAIN TO THOSE WHO HAVE BEEN READING! You give me so much warm fuzzies!

This will be another flashback chapter although much, much more dramatic than the last and with some references to  _that_  episode. Same drill, please review, pretty please.

**P.S.** Those deleted scenes — is everyone as in love with them as I am? <3

**Disclaimer:** If Downton Abbey was mine, Sybil and Matthew will still walk the Yorkshire earth - Meg and Poppy are mine tho.

* * *

_Seul devant ces tables vides_

> "Sybil –," Da’s voice was strained.
> 
> "I know we haven’t planned this, Tom. But I just can’t stand the thought that you are unhappy about this." Mamma was pleading. Pleading for what?
> 
> "I’m not unhappy, love. Not exactly – all the planning in the world be damned! I’m as happy as I can be given the circumstances, only…oh, my darling!" Da’s voice was cracking; there was fear in his voice. He was crying now. Why was Da crying? Why was he afraid?
> 
> There was the sound of a chair moving and footsteps. Sybbie could hear Mamma’s voice from the spot behind the kitchen door where she stood hiding since she had returned from school, clutching a science examination excellently marked by her teacher tight in her hand.
> 
> "I’m afraid too, Tom. Of course I am," Mamma told Da softly as she echoed the questions in Sybbie’s mind. "I only have to remember how close I have come to not knowing Sybbie, to not watching her grow into the beautiful and intelligent girl that she is – the mere thought that I may not be so lucky this time, that I won’t know him or her as I had Sybbie –,"
> 
> "Don’t." Da said weakly, hopelessly. "Please, Sybil, don’t. Even hypothetically, don’t. Please."
> 
> Da fell silent after that and so did Mamma.
> 
> "I can’t…I knew…then that I couldn’t do this without you. I still know that I won’t be able to this without you," Da started again, the sound of tears still in his voice.
> 
> Sybbie wondered whether now was the moment to make her presence known, when Mamma spoke again, in a voice stronger and more confident than she had previously used. Sybbie could hear the smile in her voice.
> 
> "Oh, darling, you won’t. You will never have to. No earthly force can take me away from you and Sybbie and this new baby. Do you remember what you told me that day in the garage? We love each other and the rest is detail. This is only detail, a detail that we’d be happier and stronger for, I promise."
> 
> To the child, listening behind the door, the news of her mother’s second pregnancy came as no surprise. Mamma had been ill for some time now and her busy bee routine had been replaced by a recurring preference for rest. Constant fatigue had forced Mamma to relinquish many of the household tasks that she took pleasure in to the insistent Poppy. Her favorite dessert, served at the last visit at Downton, had become a source of aversion.
> 
> Precocious was one adjective the family used to describe Sybbie. Intelligent was another. Sybbie also happened to be the daughter of a nurse, a nurse who believed that knowledge in the hands of a woman was power and who chose not to shield her young daughter from the “delicate” subject of human anatomy that was her field of work. She also knew that the act her parents performed in the closed confines of their bedroom when they thought her asleep was what brought about the new baby. It was a fact that she acknowledged as simple as the fact that one needs oxygen to survive, an acceptance that her great-grandmother may have found extremely scandalous especially in the hands of an eleven-year old girl. It had been therefore weeks before Sybbie had walked into her parents’ discussion that she had correctly diagnosed the symptoms her mother so clearly exhibited
> 
> "Sybbie would be very pleased by the news at the very least."
> 
> The sound of Da’s still cracked voice was enough to pull her out of her reverie and silently walking back to the hall, she called for her parents, pretending that it was only now that she had arrived from school.
> 
> She accepted the news as well as a child whose disappointed hopes are finally coming true could. She embraced each of her parents and expressed her excitement at finally having a baby sister. To her mother’s stomach, she joked that one George was enough and she would only accept a sister. Running to the telephone, she cried tears of joy as she relayed to George the news of her fulfilled wish. She registered this as something to be happy about and she wrapped herself in the euphoria of excitement and planning as with great effort, she pushed the memory of her father’s fears and her mother’s determined insistence. The news was speedily relayed to Aunt Mary, Uncle Matthew, Granny, Grandpapa, Gran and Aunt Isobel. It was not long before the news had reached Gran Martha in America, Aunt Edith and Auntie Rosamund in Eaton Square, Uncle Kieran in Liverpool and Nanna in Dublin.
> 
> Bursting with plans that she shares with George over their regular calls, neither child knew it, but the family had begun to hold its breath.
> 
> ***
> 
> "We should take a trip to Downton." Da’s voice was urgent. That was one of the emotions his voice held these days – urgent, frightened, pleading or all three at once, "I can take a week off, maybe two. It’s about time you stopped work. The added fatigue surely can’t be doing you good."
> 
> Darkness enveloped the house while Tom and Sybil Branson spoke in the hushed tones that neither dared to use in daylight in the presence of their daughter.
> 
> "And Sybbie?," Mamma responded, her voice taking on the exasperated tone it was accustomed to take during these conversations, "She has school. We can’t just take her out only to bring her to a sudden vacation at her grandparents’ estate!"
> 
> "I don’t see why not. Her teacher’s reports on her performance are above satisfactory; little chance two weeks away would harm that. George has a tutor and Meg a governess, Matthew and Mary would have no qualms about Sybbie sharing one or the other. Sybbie herself would be delighted, I think."
> 
> To this, Mamma sighed and when Da spoke again, his voice is urgent, frightened and pleading at once.
> 
> "Sybil…please. Please. I just think we should have Doctor Clarkson’s opinion. He knows your medical history better than anyone. He was the one who diagnosed the Toxemia the last time."
> 
> "Doctor Clarkson did not see anything to be of concern the last time he saw me," Mamma began, once more exasperated, "Doctor Johnson does not believe –,"
> 
> "The last time Doctor Clarkson saw you, the excessive fatigue could have been attributed to early pregnancy. Love, you were never this tired at this stage with Sybbie. Neither was she so active nor so large…Sybil, I know how much you hate being idle. I know how much you love working but I do believe it’s time for you to be rest and be looked after."
> 
> A long silence follows and when Da speaks again his voice is wrought with desperation and tears.
> 
> "I still dream about that day, you know…The day Sybbie was born."
> 
> "Darling –,"
> 
> "I see everything as clearly as I had that day and I feel everything again. I can see you in pain, so much pain, in your old bedroom at Downton. I see myself standing, feeling helpless, as your parents and the doctors argue over whether or not you should be brought to the hospital. I remember that one scream – that cry that decided the matter for us. Even in my dreams it chills me to the bone. I see it all again. I see Sybbie in your arms but I can’t bring myself to be as happy as I was then because I’m afraid of what follows. I see you thrashing in bed, delirious. I am calling to you, begging you, but you don’t hear me. To you I’m not there. I hear Sybbie crying in the distance and I see you in agony before me and I’m just so helpless and scared."
> 
> "Tom –,"
> 
> "I keep calling to you, Sybil, but in that moment I do not exist and suddenly everything just stops. I call to you again. I plead with you again not to leave me…Only this time, your eyes never open again," Never has the helplessness in Da’s voice been so pronounced until now, aggravated only by the tears and desperation in it.
> 
> "But they did," Mamma’s voice had lost the exasperated edge it had worn earlier. When she spoke it was now softly, understanding. "I’m still here now, darling. I woke up from that nightmare and I saw you and now we’re here and we have a beautiful daughter and another to come."
> 
> "Sybil, you don’t understand. I wake up so afraid that you are not beside me. I fear that all the dreams and all the plans we have fought for have come crashing around me. It was mere minutes when we believed you have been taken from us but to me those minutes lasted a lifetime. I can’t live through that again. I can’t bear even the idea that there is a chance that you would be taken from me. Not again. We may have been spared that during Sybbie’s birth but I live in fear that this baby will take you away from me."
> 
> "I do understand, Tom. I do. The day I told you about this baby, I told you that I’m afraid as well. Your fears are the same as mine, can’t you see? But I also told you that day that I’m not going anywhere and I mean it."
> 
> The silence that followed was shattered by the sound of a sharp intake of breath penetrating the dark hall, Da’s voice was in a panic.
> 
> "What is it?! Sybil – the baby – ?!"
> 
> Mamma’s soft laughter filled the air and a trace of that laugh enlaced in her voice when she answered.
> 
> "It seems to me your child has decided to play a game past bed time, Mr. Branson. This one has definitely a mind of its own."
> 
> "We will go to Downton and I will see Doctor Clarkson if that puts your mind at rest," Mamma continued, "But I mean what I said. I’m not going anywhere and I promise you that at the end of this, all four of us will be all the happier for it."
> 
> A lasting silence followed this declaration and soon the sounds of uneasy sleep have filled the air.
> 
> Unbeknownst to Tom and Sybil Branson, at the other side of the bedroom door, a child hugged her knees with one hand and clutched the doll Catherine to her chest with the other. Wide awake, afraid, silent tears flowing down from her blue eyes into her alabaster cheeks, Sybbie Branson has heard every word of the events of the day eleven years ago that her parents had for so long sought to keep from the child. She has also heard every word of the fears of what may happen in three months time.
> 
> Unbeknownst to the family, even to dear George, Sybbie Branson had also begun to hold her breath.
> 
>  
> 
> _To be continued…_


	4. Voilà le soir qui tombe, Part deux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Da said they were lucky but they…Mamma had the seizures then, I heard Da and things went bad. I don't know what happened exactly but I know it was horrible. They're afraid. Mamma acts strong but I know she's afraid too," sobs begin to wrack her body once more and she burrows into her cousin's shoulder, "I'm wicked, George. I'm so wicked. I've wanted a baby sister for so long and now she's going to finish what I could not and kill Mamma."

**A/N:** Again, THANK YOU SO, SO MUCH FOR THE WARM FUZZIES, I haven't expected such warm welcomes for a first story and thank you so, so much for the compliments. I'm honestly much more accustomed to writing non-fiction so this is all new for me.

I know many of you are concerned about Sybil, and with good reason. I have to admit that post-3x05 any storyline of pregnancy and childbirth has me set on edge, even in fandoms outside Downton and one of those actually ended almost the same way...but that's not what's important here. Anyway, I'm sorry for giving you that scare but I promise that it's necessary for the build-up and also to get the emotions flowing from the characters -- and also to convey all the fears and emotions Sybbie feels.

Again, I'm glad over your reception on the relationship between the cousins. With everyone's attention on Sybil (and who can blame them?), Sybbie needs her own support system especially when she's bottling everything up so that's where George comes in, as her own support system all in one person. 

Aaaannnddd...we're back with Sybbie and George in the present in the Downton library. This is also the third to the last chapter in this fic so you won't have to wait too long for the happy ending. This chapter is still climbing up the drama scale tho so dun...dun...dun...

Reviews make me very happy!

**Disclaimer:** If Downton Abbey was mine, Sybil and Matthew will still walk the Yorkshire earth - Meg, Poppy and Horus are mine tho. The chapter titles belong to Alain Boublil, Claude-Michel Schonberg, Marc Natel and Cameron Mackintosh. How many can guess what musical these titles are from? ;D

* * *

_Voilà le soir qui tombe, Part deux_

The sky remained a splash of mournful grey several hours later as Sybbie, red-eyed and mournful, continued to gaze at the rain-drenched grounds beyond the window of the library. George, sprawled across the opposite couch once more, clutched a book that he was pretending to read while he continued to watch Sybbie with the same concerned Crawley blue eyes. The words  _Notre-Dame de Paris_  were emblazoned in gold on the heavy tome's royal blue spine. The text was in French and from what he could gather, it was a rather torrid tale of passions and tragedy, a story that Gran would no doubt deem most highly unsuitable for her great-grandson of ten years. In any other time, that disapproval would prove reason enough for Sybbie to take the book from him and gather the little French she had learned from Meg's governess in order to proudly proclaim to her great-grandmother at tea that she had read such a text, and what a splendid text it was!

But this was no other time and the book did not elicit even a single glance from the normally blithe child just as Mrs. Patmore's best cookies, brought in some time ago by Thomas, lay untouched and forgotten in a side table close to both children. Frightfully few could elicit a mere glance from Sybbie since the commotion of the morning's events, George noted to himself.

He therefore congratulated himself for keeping mum when her sudden movement brought him out of his reverie. For fear of her return to a catatonic state, he forced himself to keep silent as he watched her walk purposefully towards a shelf on the far side of the room that contained the rarely-touched medical tomes.

Aunt Sybil was the only person in his knowledge who explored that particular section but not once in his memory had Sybbie, uncannily similar to her mother in everything, ventured to this section to browse such texts of intimidating volumes.

She returned to her seat carrying a large red book emblazoned in gold with the  _words Maternities and Maladies_  and began flipping through the pages, not bothering to search for her query in the table of contents. He laid down his own scandalous text and walked over to see her stopping somewhere a little more than halfway through the book. The word "Toxemia" was printed in large bold letters at the upper-left corner of the page but it rang no more bells in George's mind ay more than the word "Catatonic" had. Sybbie's face blanched even more at the page if such a thing was possible. Her hands trembled.

"Toxemia?," George says before realizing that he had asked the question out loud.

Sybbie nods.

"Excessive headaches, a swelling of the ankles, back pains, seizures…extremely rare condition…highly fatal," George read over Sybbie's shoulder, "Sybbie, what is this?"

"When I was born," she breathed deeply before answering her cousin, "Mamma was toxemic…when I was born."

"How –? I don't –," confusion took over the child's features as he tried to understand not only the unknown medical condition but likewise how his cousin had come into possession of knowledge on the said condition.

"Mamma and Da spoke of it some months ago. They thought I was asleep. I had another one of those nightmares. I was about to go them when I heard them talking. I heard my name and they said that word," she gestured towards the word that glared at them from the book, "Da sounded distressed and…helpless. I wrote the word down so that I won't forget it. We were here the week after that. When everyone was asleep I would take books from the library and read them in the nursery. George, I just had to know."

The missing books in the library that magically reappeared after two days, Sybbie's lack of resistance to the afternoon naps imposed by Meg's nanny, the faint dark circles under her eyes – the answers to all the questions of that visit a month ago. Exhaling a held breath, George extended a comforting arm to his cousin's shoulder and urged her to continue.

"Undiagnosed, the birth will almost certainly trigger cerebral seizures in the mother. The seizures cannot be stopped and that's the end of it," She drew another sharp breath, "A cesarean birth is needed to ensure even the slightest chance of survival but even then the safety of the mother and child cannot be ensured. I've read about it so many times you'd think I'd get accustomed to the idea but…"

A cold chill ran down George's spine. He was by no means medical but he was well aware that a cesarean remained a very dangerous procedure – the thought that such was the safer option – "But – but Aunt Sybil is alive and so are you and…"

"Da said they were lucky but they…Mamma had the seizures then, I heard Da and things went bad. I don't know what happened exactly but I know it was horrible. They're afraid. Mamma acts strong but I know she's afraid too," sobs begin to wrack her body once more and she burrows into her cousin's shoulder, "I'm wicked, George. I'm so wicked. I've wanted a baby sister for so long and now she's going to finish what I could not and kill Mamma."

"Shh," George whispered as he smoothed her wild blonde curls, "Don't say that Syb. Don't say that. You're not wicked for wanting a baby sister. You have so much love to give, that's generosity not wickedness. You did not kill your Mamma. The baby will not kill your Mamma. Everything will be alright you'll see."

But fear had also crept into the resolve that was so strong hours ago.

Toxemia. Seizures. Fatal. The crack in Granny's voice behind the delight when he announced the news that Sybbie had relayed, the far-away look in Grandpapa's eyes, the catch in Gran's voice, Mamma and Papa's hushed tone, Sybbie's diminished gaiety, the indescribable fear in Uncle Tom's eyes.

Ten-year old George Crawley was not so ignorant of the way the world works as his great-grandmother would want to believe. It is true that he was not as exposed as Sybbie was, what with her London existence and with her mother who could not be bothered by the "delicacies" imposed by a previous generation, but he was the nephew of one nurse and the grandson of another. He knew not to believe the stork story with which Gran and Granny continued to answer Meg's queries on babies. He knew that the expanding of his mother's belly four years ago meant a new baby sibling for him then just as it meant the same for Sybbie now. He was aware that gestation in humans amounted to nine months and a squalling baby at the end of it. From Mamma and Papa's conversation at tea, he knew that Aunt Sybil was "eight months gone" and in a month's time, he would have another cousin.

It was during morning tea that the drama commenced. The Bransons have driven to Yorkshire from London two days ago at Aunt Sybil's insistence. She was exhausted by bedrest, Mamma told Papa when they believed he was not listening. George and Sybbie were in a corner petting Grandpapa's new dog, Horus when the sound of splashing water broke through the buzz of conversation in a way that Carson would deem most undignified. Aunt Sybil then grabbed her stomach and screamed in pain. The next thing that George could remember was Granny dismissing Carson's suggestions to call for Doctor Clarkson telling him instead, hurriedly, to meet them in the hospital. Papa insisted on driving Aunt Sybil and Uncle Tom to the hospital, stating that it would be quicker than ringing for Pratt. Granny and Mamma got into the car with Papa, Aunt Sybil and Uncle Tom while Grandpapa was left at the big house to mind the children.

Sybbie was quite the pathetic scene that hampered the rush to the hospital. Running after the motor, she cried for her Mamma and Da in a manner that she had not done since that day seven years ago when she was lost in the labyrinth of rooms in the bachelor's corridor. She tripped over the stones leading to the big house and the motor came into a stop. George's own Mamma alighted, pulling her sobbing niece to her feet and telling her in an icy tone worthy of the Mary Crawley of Aunt Sybil's late teenage years, "Your father has enough to deal with in the state your mother is in without you acting like the child we all know you are not, Sybil." She softened the blow by kissing her niece's wild curls, so like her mother's in form and shape if not in color, and mounted the motor. That was when Sybbie ran to the library and George followed mere minutes later.

He was not so naïve, no, but nothing could prepare him for the shock of this.

Of course there was panic, he told himself, the baby was not due for another month. Of course there was urgency, Aunt Sybil was in so much pain! But never had he thought of something as sinister as this.

The events of the morning, the panic of the past months that all have sought to hide from him and Sybbie – all made sense now in a sick, tragic cloud of foreboding.

_To be continued..._


	5. L'Air de la misère

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was touch-and-go for several weeks. Your father and grandmother were occupied with your mother while your Aunt Mary and Uncle Matthew were occupied with them. Your Gran and Aunt Edith busied themselves with finding you a wet nurse and a nursery maid, at least until your mother was better. Aunt Edith was quite the nanny then. You were baptized a Catholic two months after, when your mother's state had improved but your grandmother did not speak to me until after three months and was cold months after, not that I blame her. Your parents took…precautions…to avoid another pregnancy and – and – Sybbie, oh my darling Sybbie, forgive me. Please forgive me."

**A/N:** I AM ABSOLUTELY SORRY FOR THE DELAY! The mountain otherwise known as my PolSci readings have finally caught on about the same time as the biggest Christmas bazaar this side of the Philippines was taking place so I had to promise myself that I'd get both my academic and Santa Claus responsibilities out of the way once and for all (which ended up not happening). I tried to upload this update last night and two nights ago but surprise, surprise, it seems like the wifi at my aunt's is conspiring with my mother and depriving me of a connection at night when I should be sleeping (funny my phone still had a connection but no drafts). Anyway, thanks again so much for the reviews and for continuing to read this, it means so much to me! =D

This chapter will be told from Robert's perspective because, well...I've hated Robert since 3x05. Well to be honest, I was non too happy with him and his "No one is right but me air" since Season 2 but I despise the fact that it was his daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter who ultimately paid the price for it. I wasn't too happy either over the fact that Cora forgave him on something based on a lie. If Sybil lived, that lie would never have existed and I imagine that the guilt of that day would be something Robert will continue to carry so that's what this chapter is mostly about. Tbh, this was the chapter (apart from the one where Sybbie eavesdrops on her father talking about her birth, of course) that I really cried while writing so be prepared for a lot of drama. This is also the penultimate chapter so be prepared for fluff in the next update. Don't forget the reviews! ;D

**Disclaimer:** If Downton Abbey was mine, Sybil and Matthew will still walk the Yorkshire earth - Meg, Poppy and Horus are mine tho. The chapter titles belong to songs by Schonberg, Boublil, Natel and Mackintosh.

* * *

_L'air de la misère_

She was Sybil, but with deliberate mistakes – blonde replacing the raven in the curls that were his daughter's, the Irish blue of his son-in-law's replacing the azure of his wife's and his daughter's eyes. But none of those differences registered themselves as he regarded the heartbreaking sight before him. His granddaughter was so like her mother in every way that for a moment he felt himself looking at his own Sybil and not his Sybil's Sybil.

He stayed home, to look over the children, he told his wife, sparing himself from the horrors of the ordeal that continues to haunt his dreams. That was a poor excuse. His day was spent wandering from corridor to corridor, dressing room to bedroom, avoiding the library that contained the children. Not the children, really. Only her, Sybbie and the desperation he could read in her eyes; eyes that sought comfort even as she elected to ensconce herself in her solitude. How could he face the trusting eyes of that sweet little girl today of all days, whilst he carried the knowledge that by his own doing eleven years ago, she had come so close to not knowing her mother?

It would be a lie to say that he had not been relieved when Carson informed him that the children have chosen to continue barricading themselves from the world during luncheon and he continued to wander the vast house like the phantoms they all were that day as the rain continued to patter against the windows. But night was falling on Downton Abbey. The telephone had remained silent all day with neither good news nor bad. Neither child had emerged from their sanctuary an hour after the dinner gong had been rung. Thomas, as fond of Sybbie as Carson was of George briefly informed him that not a single cookie had been touched from Mrs. Patmore's stock. Mrs. Hughes, equally entranced by the spell of the second Sybil had told him that the children had not had a bite since the disastrous tea of the morning. Guilt or not, a hunger strike could do the child no good and swallowing his fear, he marched to the library to relieve one grandchild of the brave and heavy tasked imposed on him today and to comfort and force-feed the other if it came to that.

The broken figure of his first grandchild was the first thing he saw – face blanched, eyes rouged, lower lip trembling, an almost perfect replica of his youngest daughter that he took a moment to catch his breath and let his heart break. He allowed his heart to break for the little girl before him who cried for her mother, for the daughter he had come so close to losing that night eleven years ago and who he may lose tonight, for the guilt he continued to carry from that nightmare.

The sound of his entrance aroused her from her position on her cousin's shoulder and she looked up at him with those eyes that he feared, pleading and trusting, her voice broken.

"Grandpapa –,"

That was when he saw the tome open on the seat in front of her, exposing the word that shook him to the core of his being, glaring at him in large, bold capitals.  _Toxemia_. A million thoughts raced through his mind at once rendering him breathless – this innocent child who they have all agreed to protect from the knowledge of the dark events of her birth –  _She knew_. It was as plain as that. But how had this cruel word, so contrasting with her sweetness come to be in front of her? Who could have told her? What extent of these horrors have she been made aware of and was she in knowledge of the greatness of his role in it? More than anything, like his grandson before him, the reality of her behavior that morning, of that unexpected tantrum, of her silent catatonic state, came crashing around him as realization dawned like a sadistic fiend.

"Grandpapa –," she started again, fear of news he may bring evident in her tone, "Grandpapa, has there –,"

Recovering from the shock of being recalled to reality, he could say nothing for a while and he walked to where his eldest grandchildren sat, easing himself between them.

It was a mere split second before Sybbie blanched even more, before crying in a terrible, terrible voice, "Mamma! Mamma! I want my Mamma! Please, God, don't take away my Mamma! I'll never ask for a baby sister again. I'll never ask for anything again, just spare my Mamma!"

Realizing how the child must have interpreted his silence, he immediately began, trying to reverse the damage he has done, "Sybbie, I haven't heard anything yet. Sybbie, nothing –. " George looked helplessly at his attempts but Sybbie was clearly in no state to listen or to be soothed.

"God, please don't take away my Mamma, please! Don't let her die. I know I almost killed her, I know I did but that's my fault, not Mamma's! Don't let the baby kill her, please! Please, God, please. Da won't manage it. I won't manage it. We can't –. I'll do anything just don't take Mamma away from me and Da. Please."

Those words chilled the blood in his veins. Never, until his dying day would he forget those words and the anguished cry with which the child had uttered them. He looked from his panicked grandson to the book laid in front of them to his shattered granddaughter before he began, resolve in his mind, to lay before her the guilt he had carried for eleven years, the very secret he had sought to keep from her. He braced himself for the accusation and pain he would no doubt read in the face so similar to the other little girl who he had soothed on his knee so many years ago. Even  _that_  was a price he was willing to pay to remove that idea, that crushing guilt he knew so well of, from his granddaughter's mind.

He stroked her curls just as he had done to her mother once upon a time and at half an hour's time, the child had calmed sufficiently to listen to what he had to say.

"Sybbie, my darling girl," he began again.

"What happened that night…," he turned his gaze to the accusing word, afraid that the sight of her tear-streaked cheeks would make him lose his resolve.

"That night you were born…what happened to your mother… None of it was your fault. T-Toxemia. It – it's extremely rare, they told us, none of us could have…,"

He stopped at that, feeling anger at himself surge through his veins. That wasn't true, not the least bit true. Doctor Clarkson knew. Cora knew. In some far reach of his mind, he knew. But his pride overpowered everything else. He forced himself to find the courage to look at his granddaughter in the eye before speaking his next words.

"When your mother almost…When we almost los–…Sybbie, if there was someone to be blamed for that night, it was not you. If anyone was to be blamed…I'm the only person worthy of any blame that night, Sybbie, not you. It was most definitely not you. You did nothing, Sybbie. You did nothing wrong."

His granddaughter suddenly went silent, her eyes alighting with fear at his confession. On his other side, his grandson went stiff. It was not until he spoke again that he felt the tears running down his cheeks and into his hands.

"I – I hired a renowned surgeon. He – he was noted among the aristocracy. He believed nothing was wrong. The swollen ankles, the headache, even the delirium – he insisted all was normal. Doctor Clarkson… he knew your mother's medical history. He attended to her since she was a little girl and he – he disagreed. He pleaded with me, him and your grandmother. They insisted we bring your mother to the hospital immediately. And I… I was an aristocratic fool, Sybbie! I was a proud fool! A country doctor could not know more than a man who delivered the children of duchesses and marquises. My first grandchild…delivered by a man who delivered the children of the best families in Britain!"

At this, he stopped. The memories of the day returned to him as clearly, as defined as if it were happening right now before his very eyes. Minutes passed as he closed his eyes, unstoppable tears escaping him.

"Da…," his granddaughter croaked.

"We…I…did not inform your father of what was happening…until…I did not see the need. Your father was frightened. Never until, until this morning had I seen so much fear in a man..," he wanted to shoot himself for unnecessarily reminding her of what was happening at the moment, "But there was no time to decide. It was too late to decide. You were coming. Your mother…"

The memory of that piercing scream, never, never in his life could he have imagined his little girl in so much pain and yet that was what happened that night.

"You were so tiny, so beautiful. You looked so much like your mother," at this he allowed himself a brief, small smile, "Your Mamma held you in her arms and I have never seen her so happy…so proud. So was your father. We all were."

He took a deep breath before telling her the most horrible part of the story. She deserves to know, he told himself.

"The seizures started hours later. Your mother awoke to head pains. She was delirious. The surgeon had no words, Doctor Clarkson was afraid nothing could be done. She was thrashing and you were crying from the distance. Your grandmother and your father were at her side, pleading. She fell back against the pillows…we believed it was over. Your cries were getting stronger and more urgent but none of us could move. We were frozen there. We were helpless and in shock. It was a miracle when she opened her eyes. Her voice was so weak but she heard your cries. She looked at your father and asked him why no one had attended to you. Your Aunt Mary brought you in and you stopped crying."

He stopped to brush the tears off his eyes and bravely did the same to his granddaughter who flinched at his touch.

"It was touch-and-go for several weeks. Your father and grandmother were occupied with your mother while your Aunt Mary and Uncle Matthew were occupied with them. Your Gran and Aunt Edith busied themselves with finding you a wet nurse and a nursery maid, at least until your mother was better. Aunt Edith was quite the nanny then. You were baptized a Catholic two months after, when your mother's state had improved but your grandmother did not speak to me until after three months and was cold months after, not that I blame her. Your parents took…precautions…to avoid another pregnancy and – and – Sybbie, oh my darling Sybbie, forgive me. Please forgive me."

Robert could go no further. He kissed Sybbie's blond curls, patted George's broad shoulder and made to exit the room, all thoughts of drawing the children to dinner forgotten. He was about to step into the hall when Sybbie's sweet voice resounded in his ears.

"Grandpapa, wait!"

The sweet child ran to him and pressed a kiss against his cheek. That was the sweetest forgiveness. She threw her arms around him and cried to his chest. He carried her back to the couch and allowed his tears to mingle with her own.

How very like Sybil she is, he thought, just as beautiful, just as sweet, just as forgiving.

_To be continued..._


	6. Le grand jour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sybil, Aoife and Saoirse. All three of their daughters were that, really – their freedoms, their three little freedoms."

**A/N:** This is the last part of the set  _and_  the promised  **happy ending**. I hope it isn't too disconcerting after all the drama of the previous five chapters but I did promise it would be happy - and  _fluffy_! Aaaannnddd - we're back to Sybbie's POV although I threw in a bit of a Tom in there! ;D Thank you so, so much for following my story, I cannot say enough how much it has meant to me! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

This probably won't be the end of this universe because I have so many ideas in store (I have a fluffy, little OS of little Sybbie and little George in the works) and because writing this fic has made me catch the writing bug but they'll (it will?) be out by or after the Christmas holidays at least. It's time to work on those papers, proposals and midterms before the Christmas special and return to the life of a student, but it has been great fun!

Thank you, thank you again so much and please don't forget to review! ;D

**Disclaimer:** If Downton Abbey was mine, Sybil and Matthew will still walk the Yorkshire earth - Meg, Poppy, Horus, Aoife and Saorsie are mine tho. Chapter titles belong to songs belonging to Schonberg, Boublil, Natel and MacKintosh - you know what musical I'm talking about, right?

* * *

_Le grand jour_

"Sybbie. Wake up, Sybbie darling."

The voice was Uncle Matthew's. Her wide blue eyes opened in fear, asking him what she did not trust her voice to say. His response was a smile. A real smile, not a tragic one nor a sad one – it was a happy smile. She felt Grandpapa wake on the library couch beside her as George continued to snore on his other side. Sunshine was shining through the windows of the Downton library. Cookie crumbs fell off her dress as she adjusted her position.

"It wasn't toxemia. The baby's size and the early labor were brought on by –, well, I wouldn't want to ruin the surprise," Uncle Matthew laughed at that as he relayed the news to Grandpapa. Sybbie felt a great burden lift from her shoulders.

"Mamma?," she just had to ask.

"Your Mamma is doing wonderfully, darling. They all are. Well, your Da, he's still in shock to be honest."

Responding to Sybbie's quizzical expression, Uncle Matthew only laughed once more and jested, "All I can say is that Tom and Sybil will no doubt have their plates full for the next two decades to come, what with children stubborn enough to know their minds at such a young age! But I suppose I should expect nothing less from such parents!"

Turning once more to Grandpapa, he said, "Mary's gone to Sybil and Tom's bedroom to collect things to bring to the hospital. I'm supposed to make the calls and telegrams to London, Liverpool, Dublin and America. We've come to collect you and Sybbie. Mother can stay with the children."

"I'll do the calls and the telegram. Ring Mrs. Patmore to make you a sandwich. Take a nap. God knows you and Mary have done enough."

Ruffling her curls, Grandpapa had turned to exit the room, using the errands as an excuse to hide the tears of joy and relief that have threatened to fall.

"Now, Sybbie," Uncle Matthew smiled, "why don't you run up the nursery and ask Nanny to make you extra pretty for the hospital? There's someone I know you would love to meet. As for me," shaking the crumbs off his sleeping son, "I'd like to take a very short nap like this grubby boy of mine."

* * *

 

Mamma was on the bed, adoring the squirming bundle in her arms as Da kissed her forehead. Granny was on the chair by Mamma's bed cooing at – it could not be! – another squirming bundle mewing just a little louder than the first.

Sybbie, dressed in a new blue frock, red ribbons laced between her curls, stood frozen, transfixed by the tableau before her.

It was Granny who first raised her head at the sound of approaching footsteps. Looking at her eldest granddaughter, she smiled a smile that could light up the whole sky, all expressions of fear and panic now completely washed away. Her voice was soft but strong.

"Come and meet your new sisters, Sybbie."

Sisters?  _Two_  baby sisters?

"It seems these little girls could not wait one month more to see the world. They've got a mind of their own just like you do, Sybbie," Mamma said proudly.

Looking at the bundle in his wife's arms, at the bundle in his mother-in-law's arms, then finally at his firstborn who stood before them, Da turned to Mamma, his voice full of love and happiness and pride, "All three of them have minds of their own, love, just like their mother."

Grandpapa entered then with Aunt Mary and Uncle Matthew.

"Your mother has telegrammed to say that she will be in England in a month's time to meet her new great-grandchild, well great-grandchildren, and it will be an extended vacation. She asks to tell you that nothing you or Mamma can say will persuade her otherwise," Granpapa told Granny, faint terror and amusement mingling in his tone.

Turning to Mamma and Da, he continued, "Mamma is coming after luncheon and might bring Isobel and George along. Tom, your mother has telegrammed to say that she will be in Yorkshire in two days time at the most. Edith and Rosamund send their congratulations and say that they will see you in London when you get back."

That hardly surprised Sybbie. Aunt Edith moved out of Downton and into Eaton Square with Aunt Rosamund following an extended trip to Switzerland when Sybbie was three. For reasons unknown, her mother's older sister avoided babies like the plague and was not particularly fond of children. Grandpapa's confession of last night that Aunt Edith occupied herself with Baby Sybbie while Mamma recovered and Da kept vigil over Mamma was hard to imagine. Her early childhood memories in Downton added Aunt Mary, Uncle Matthew, Granny, Thomas, Mrs. Hughes and even Mamma's Cousin Rose to Mamma, Da, George and Isis in games of tea parties, dolls, mischief and romps around the grounds, but never Aunt Edith.

Whether or not Grandpapa shared these thoughts, Sybbie would never know. Having disposed of his duty of relaying messages and having pushed aside the fears that have plagued him, he had instantly taken on the role of the doting grandfather.

"Twins!," he exclaimed, "Twin girls! What little beauties they are!"

That was enough for Sybbie to push aside all thoughts of Aunt Edith and run to Granny's side to join the mutual adoration society. Grandpapa was right, her new sister was a little beauty, just as she had always imagined – hair as dark as Mamma's as her own was as light as Da's, straight as Da's as her own was as curly as Mamma's, alabaster skin and blue eyes like Mamma's and Granny's, chubby hands and fingers and legs. She ran to Mamma and Da and was greeted by an identical sight in Mamma's arms – the same straight dark hair, the same alabaster skin, the same blue eyes, the same chubby hands and fingers and legs.

Sybbie burrowed into Mamma's side, the one unoccupied by Da. She sat exactly between the baby sister in Granny's arms and the baby sister in Mamma's. She delighted at the sight of the precious squirming bundles mewing in the way that was typical of newborns. She loved them so much already! Mamma was safe. The fear was gone from Da's eyes. All was right with the world.

Eyes dancing with delight and excitement, she asked her parents, "What should we call them?"

Mamma and Da exchanged a radiant look, now forever banishing the sad exchange of the Christmas seasons, and Mamma turned her gaze to the bundle in Granny's arms.

"Our feisty, little beauty over there is Aoife."

Sybbie's eyes widened with delight.

"The warrior and the healer in the fairytales Nanna and I would read?," she asked excitedly.

Da nodded proudly and glanced at his youngest daughter by ten minutes in her Mamma's arms. She looked at him with wide blue eyes the replica of her mother's and he could not help the smile tugging at his mouth. Mamma's gaze followed his own and she said in a voice with as much love and pride as she had announced the name of her firstborn eleven years ago and the name of her middle daughter a mere minute past, "Saoirse, our free spirit".

"Four granddaughters now!," Grandpapa exclaimed, pushing aside his irritation over the starkly Irish names of his half-English granddaughters of whose pronunciation he cannot even begin to comprehend, and rejoicing over the events that turned out for the better. He patted Da's shoulder as well as that of Uncle Matthew's, "Two sons-in-law and a grandson and I thought the balance was altering in our favor. Well, it seems to me that we men are doomed to become a minority in the House of Crawley."

"It's just as Sybil has always said, darling," Grandmama laughed, "'Women's rights begin at home.'"

The collective laughter that followed was interrupted by Grandpapa turning to Da, a grin on his face, "Well, my lad, I've had three spirited daughters of my own and you have a long, winding road ahead of you. The only advice I can give is goodluck."

Da laughed at that but he was not unnerved.

Sybil, their little Sybbie who really was not so little any more. The firstborn named after the mother she had nearly lost and who she was so like in every way. A privileged early childhood had not hindered her from fighting for what she believed was right no matter what others may think, a sweet child who always felt so keenly for others, a progressive thinker who was not limited by notions of systems, nor conventions, a romantic even at eleven that a jaded world could not beat down.

Aoife, the second miracle that they feared the world would not let them have. Their second beauty named after the greatest and most beautiful female warrior and the most talented healer of the Celtic tales; a warrior and a healer just as her mother had been, a warrior that she would undoubtedly be. With Sybil as a mother, how could she be otherwise?

Saoirse, their baby, if only by ten minutes. The youngest named for freedom – freedom from the system that kept them apart for so long all those years ago, freedom from the constraints of the existence of their exile, freedom from the fear that has gripped them for so many months, years if they were honest. She was their little freedom.

Sybil, Aoife and Saoirse. All three of their daughters were that, really – their freedoms, their three little freedoms.

Tom Branson once more looked at each of his daughters – from Sybbie cooing at her sisters while cuddled at her mother's side, to Aoife taking in the world around her with wide blue eyes, to Saoirse squirming in her mother's arms as if impatient to begin her adventures. He turned to his wife and claimed her lips, unmindful of the eyes on them.

A smile he could not contain plastered on his face, he responded to his father-in-law, "I can't wait."

_**Fini.** _

 

* * *

**A/N:** See, I told you she would live! =D


End file.
